Spring Break
by GilmoreGirl95
Summary: Dean has a rare night off and finds himself in a seedy bar in some no name coastal town. When a group of college kids on their Spring Break come in, Dean takes no notice until he spots a familiar face he never really expected to see again. (Set pre-series; Dean is twenty three and Sam is almost nineteen).
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Apologies for anyone waiting on the next update of **_**Protected**_**, I promise I'm working on it, but this little plot occurred to me and wouldn't let me go until I'd written it out, so here we are. This is my first time writing Supernatural that isn't focused on Sam and Dean as children, but it's still pre-series. As always, apologies for any wrong Americanisms and don't forget that any and all reviews, favourites and follows are greatly appreciated!**

The thing about drinking to forget is that it doesn't actually work, at least not for Dean, or at least not tonight. Dean's not sure why; usually planting yourself on a bar stool at the first bar you find and ordering enough glasses of whatever's cheapest to clear out your wallet is more than enough to welcome comforting oblivion and ensure that you don't have to think about anything.

But not tonight.

Again, Dean's not sure what it is about tonight. The past few months have been anything but a barrel of laughs, and that much is for fucking certain, but there's nothing about tonight that should make it stand out.

Maybe it's because he's by himself, probably more alone than he's ever been in his life. Not that there haven't been several opportunities to change that. Apparently a black eye and his overall look of 'I don't give a crap' has made him even more of a handsome son of a bitch than usual because he's had four women giving him the eye since he walked in here, a personal best, but he's just not interested. Any other time, he would be all over that, but not tonight, for some reason. Tonight he is alone, and the general chatter and background noise of the bar might as well not even be there for all the attention he is paying it.

Dean doesn't know where his Dad is, which isn't a side effect of all the piss-poor excuse for alcohol he's consumed, God forbid the universe should actually do him a solid, but because Dad hasn't bothered to tell him. In the past few months, Dad has picked up an annoying habit of leaving Dean with his various hunter friends and going off on jobs alone. Dean doesn't quite understand his father's logic in this; after all the crap he spouts about this being a _family_ business, you'd think he'd want to do that business with the son he has left, but apparently not. Dean has a car, he can drive, and in theory he knows that he could just drive away and follow Dad, but so far he's refrained from doing that with surprising ease. It doesn't hurt nearly as much as it should, and if Dad had done this a year or two again then Dean would have been totally crushed, and he often was, but things are different now.

In all honesty, Dean isn't in any rush to spend every waking moment with his father right now, and he has a notion that the feeling is mutual. Dean doesn't know which of them he is more angry at, Dad or himself, but maybe it's for the best that they give a each other a little breathing space. Even still, Dean doesn't exactly appreciate being entirely alone for the first time in his life.

Ok, not entirely alone. He's been working with Caleb for the last week or so, which isn't too bad. He likes Caleb, and he's a good hunter, but Dean can't help but feel like some naughty little kid who's been dumped by a long suffering and exasperated father. He sort of wishes that he could go see Pastor Jim for a couple of days, or even Bobby Singer. In that moment, he wants nothing more than to go to Bobby's salvage yard and sleep in the tiny bedroom that was his when he was a kid, but the notion is gone as quickly as it came. They haven't spoken to or seen Bobby in over a year now; Dean still isn't entirely clear on what exactly went down but he knows that option is out. Technically, the fight was between Bobby and Dad, but even still, Dean has the feeling that he wouldn't exactly be welcome on the dude's doorstep. He can only imagine Dad's reaction if he went running to Singer just because he was feeling a bit lonely.

As it is, he's been hunting with Caleb this week, just your standard Wendigo, nothing fancy, and the hunt was over too quickly for Dean's liking. The room was paid for until tomorrow and because they had finished up early, Caleb insisted Dean take a night off and go out and enjoy himself. He even slipped a few crumpled bills into Dean's protesting hand and told him to make a good night of it.

Dean is sure there are plenty of things a man of twenty three with a few weeks worth of pool hustling money, plus Caleb's contribution, could get up to on a Spring evening, but heading to the first bar he saw with the intention of getting entirely shitfaced probably wasn't what Caleb had in mind. It was funny how things changed; a few years ago if Dean somehow had the night completely to himself, then he sure as hell wouldn't be spending it staring into the bottom of a grimy glass as though it held all the answers. Back then, being alone was a rare luxury but now it was a harsh reality and one that he isn't sure he can cope with. The thing is, he is going to have to learn to cope with it, because this is going to be his life now, and if that thought wouldn't fucking depress you, then Dean doesn't know what would.

Caleb acted like getting the night off was some great treat, and maybe once upon a time it was, but Dean would rather be out hunting, if truth be told. At least then you didn't have to think because you were focused on the task at hand and people depended on you and actually needed you around. Dean's fingers curl round the almost empty glass in front of him, wishing he was gripping one of his guns instead. He has one tucked into the waistband of his jeans of course, just in case, and because he kind of likes the way the cold metal steals away his body heat. It's like having a constant reminder of what his job is, and how he can actually have a purpose, if not at this exact moment.

In one swift, practised motion, he picks up the glass and drains it, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he shuts his eyes and wrinkles his nose in disgust. It mightn't so much as blur the edges but the stuff burns like a bitch on the way down and Dean knows he's going to have the mother of all hangovers in the morning, which is just what he needs; the consequences of drinking heavily without any of the fun parts. Hopefully he'll get a proper night's sleep for the first time in ages, but knowing his luck, probably not and he'll be throwing up at all hours. He just doesn't get why the drinking isn't working and oblivion just won't hurry up and welcome him in; the method seemed pretty failsafe and had worked for Dad for years now.

Maybe some things are just too big to forget, no matter how much you pour down your throat. Maybe even if Dean sits in this exact spot all night and drinks everything that the bartender throws his way, he just won't be able to forget that his brother has left and is never coming back.

_'You walk out that door, don't you ever come back.'_

Dean wishes he could forget those words, wishes he could forget the coldness and the sharpness of Dad's voice, the slamming of the door that had seemed to shatter everything they had ever known. Try as he might, Dean just can't obliterate the way Sam's expression had betrayed him for a moment and shown just how much Dad's words had hurt him, before he quickly rearranged his features into that indifferent mask he'd become so adept at.

_'Fine.'_

Nothing Dean does, or probably can ever do, will erase the way that word was practically spat out, the way Dad turned away in disgust, the way Sam walked away without a backward glance.

Sam. The kid's name had become practically taboo in the months since he left. Every time Dean brought him up, Dad would either ignore him completely or just shut him down, so eventually he just stopped mentioning him, and Dad never brought him up at all. It's like Dean is supposed to just forget that he ever had a little brother at all, which is the stupidest thing anyone could ever ask him to do. There are many things he wishes he could forget, but Sam is not one of them; his dramatic exit from their lives yes, but not the kid himself. No amount of alcohol is ever going to make him forget Sam, not when practically every single memory he has of his own childhood stars Sam as well. It seems strange to think there was a time before Sam existed, four whole years in fact, but memories of that time are few and far between. It's like Dean's life started that sunny May day when Mom came home from the hospital carrying an impossibly small bundle of blankets.

_'Come here, Dean. There's someone very special I want you to meet.'_

Or maybe it started that November night just six months later when that same bundle of blankets was thrust into his arms with the same instruction he's been following every day since.

_'Take your brother outside as fast as you can and don't look back. Now, Dean, go!'_

Yeah, that seems a hell of a lot more appropriate.

Either way, it's a tall order for Dean to forget Sam altogether, and it's the one order Dad has given him that Dean is prepared to disobey.

He is pissed at Sam too, quite as much as he is pissed at Dad and at himself. He is angrier than he's ever been at his little brother before; angry at Sam for leaving him alone with Dad, for disappearing without a backwards glance, for making one terse phone call to say he'd arrived at Stanford and then refusing to pick up the phone any time Dean had called after that.

Despite how annoyed he is though, and dear God is he annoyed, he misses Sam more than anything, and that far outweighs any anger he has towards his little brother. It's strange to go from spending practically every moment of the day with someone to never seeing them at all with the very real possibility that they will never meet again. Dean knows that if Sam has his way, and Sam usually gets his way, then they never will see each other again, it's the one order of Dad's that Sam will decide to follow to the letter. Even when Sam graduates Stanford and becomes some big shot lawyer or doctor or whatever it is he wants to be, and really that kid could be anything he put his mind to, then Dean is pretty certain that Sam will carry on without them. If he ever gets over his fear of girls, and finds someone else to give him dating advice since he can't turn to Dean anymore, then he'll find some beautiful chick to settle down with and have a couple of kids. He'll live out in the suburbs in the life he's apparently always wanted to lead and at the same time, Dean has no doubt that he'll find himself in a similar dive to this one.

Sometimes Dean can't blame Sam for getting out. He just wishes Sam hadn't felt the need to completely cut them out of his life. But he had, so that was that. Nothing more to be said.

Dean stands up, not even swaying a little, and pushes the empty glass back towards the bartender, who immediately asks if he wants another as he sinks back into the threadbare bar stool. He does, of course, and he's just deciding whether to have another of the same, because who doesn't love a drink that tastes faintly like turpentine, or whether to splash out on something a bit more upmarket, when the door to the bar opens and a large crowd of kids come surging in. Dean pays them no notice, he barely even registers that there is anyone besides himself and the bartender here at all, and is too busy counting out the change for this latest drink. Caleb must have been even more generous than he originally thought, because Dean finds a folded up five dollar bill wedged at the back of his wallet that he hadn't even noticed yet.

'Hey, Winchester!'

Somehow, that manages to cut though the fog in Dean's brain and he automatically snaps to attention, looking for the source of the noise. Why, tonight of all nights, has he happened across someone he knows? His first thought is that Caleb has found him and is waiting to tear him a new one for not going out and enjoying himself. Dean is really not in the mood for that right now, but the speaker isn't Caleb; the voice is too young and upbeat to be the hardened hunter. Dean doesn't really know that many people, and he's a little curious, in spite of himself, to see who it is.

Then, as it transpires, that preppy college kid who spoke isn't actually speaking to him at all. He's speaking to another college kid and suddenly, Dean finds himself staring at the very last person he ever expected to see tonight. Sam. For a minute or two, it seems like all Dean can do is stare at the brother he didn't ever expect to see again, before he comes to his senses and moves back a bit, skulking further back into a shadowy corner so as not to be noticed.

He allows himself just to look at Sam for a while, just to make sure that everything's okay with him. And by the looks of things, everything seems to be more okay. The kid's as tall as ever, even taller by the looks of things and Dean has a shrewd suspicion that if he stands beside him now that Sam will have surpassed him in the height department. Figures. So much for Dean being the big brother. Sam has filled out a bit; he's no longer all spindly arms and legs like when he had his first growth spurt, so he's still staying in shape, even if he isn't hunting anymore. Apparently, he still hasn't managed to find himself a barber though, and frankly, that hair is getting ridiculous; he'll be able to braid it soon if it gets much longer. That must be the style in Stanford, though, because at least two other guys at that table have their hair flopping all over their forehead too.

For a second, Dean wonders just what the hell Sam is doing out of Stanford and what he's doing in this little coastal town that Dean recently saved from a Wendigo. Then, with a quick calculation and a reminder of the time of year it is, it occurs to him that Sam's on Spring Break.

Maybe the line of empty glasses in front of him have had some effect after all, because Dean is finding it extremely difficult to reconcile the thought of Sam being on Spring Break with the image of Sam he has in mind, even though the guy is sitting not ten feet away from him. In Dean's head, Sam is, and will probably always remain, the slightly chubby twelve year old with his hair in his eyes who followed Dean around and didn't object to being called Sammy. Twelve was a good age, Dean reflects, just before the teenage years hit, bringing with them an ungodly amount of teenage angst; Sammy wasn't Sammy anymore, it was _Sam,_ and suddenly, he didn't want anything to do with Dad, or Dean, for that matter. Yes, twelve was a good age. Of course, Dean was too busy being a cocky sixteen year old dick himself at the time to appreciate it.

Even so, Sam is still too young to be in a bar, Dean surmises. He's eighteen years old, but some of his college buddies must have fake IDs or else the bartender just doesn't give a shit, because at least half of them have bottles of weak beer in front of them and Dean can't help but smirk. Lightweights. A quick look over his shoulder confirms that Sam, who is wearing an old shirt of Dean's that the little punk must have stolen, is nursing a Coke, like the fine upstanding citizen he so wants to be. Dean can't help but smile at that too. He never would have put Sammy down as the Spring Break type, he always preferred books to babes, and he's pretty certain that this trip wouldn't have been his brother's idea.

However, Dean does have to admit that Sam doesn't look out of place amongst those other college kids. In fact, he fits right in. Dean can hear their conversation, he's paying attention now, and maybe his brother isn't as outspoken as some of the others, but he's talking animatedly and they're listening to him. Hell, there's a pretty blonde girl right beside him who just can't get enough of him.

Way to go, Sammy. _Sam, _he corrects himself. It's Sam now.

More than anything, Dean wants to go over there and talk to his brother for the first time in over six months. The last time he spoke face to face with Sam was the night he left for Stanford after Sam slammed the door behind him and Dean stood in shocked silence for a split second before running out after him. It was cold and dark and Dean thinks it might have been raining, though that might just be his brain embellishing things.

_'Sam! Wait!'_

_'I can't, Dean, I'm sorry. I...I can't. I have to go.'_

_'Sammy, come on, come back inside. We can talk things over. You can't just leave, man.'_

_'No, you don't get it, Dean, I have to leave. I have to get out. There's a bus to California tonight and I...I have to be on it.'_

_'At least let me drive you. You can't just go off by yourself, Sammy.'_

_'It's _Sam_...and I have to get the bus, Dean. It just wouldn't be, wouldn't right if you drove me. I need to go.'_

_'I'll drive you to the station then. Quit arguing and get in the car.'_

Dean remembers that virtually silent car journey where the weight of everything that needed to be said and yet couldn't be said aloud seemed to hang in the air between them. It was just fifteen minutes until they reached the bus station but in some strange way, it simultaneously seemed so much longer, and yet so much shorter at the same time. Longer because uncomfortable silences tend to drag the time out, and shorter because Dean knew that at the end of this journey, he would be saying goodbye to his little brother.

With horrible clarity, Dean remembers pulling the Impala into the car park at the station, cutting the engine and turning to face Sam.

_'Dean?'_

_'Yeah, Sam?'_

_'Are you...I mean, do you...do you hate me? For doing this, I mean.'_

Dean remembers not being able to answer that question for a moment or two, not because he didn't know the answer, but because he couldn't believe Sam could actually be asking him that.

_'No, kid, I don't hate you. I'm not crazy about this whole situation, but I don't hate you. Never have and never will.'_

_'I think Dad does.'_

_'Sam, Dad doesn't hate you. He's just worried, that's all, you know how he gets. He just wants you to be safe.'_

_'Didn't sound that way to me.'_

_'He was just...shocked, I guess. But give him some time and he'll come round.'_

_'Dean, you heard him. He told me not to come back. He never wants to see me again.'_

_'He didn't mean that. It was just, you know, in the heat of the moment. Of course he wants to see you again.'_

_'Sure.'_

Dean remembers Sam gripping the duffle bag he must have packed in advance so tightly that his knuckles were white, his eyes fixed on the bus station ahead.

_'I, uh, this is it, I guess.'_

_'Sammy, wait a minute.'_

Dean had reached across to the glove compartment and pulled out the battered old box of cassette tapes, feeling around beneath the many tapes and pulling out the tight wad of bank notes that nobody else knew about, not even Dad.

_'Dean? What is this?'_

_'Come on, dude, you're going to Stanford, you need to start acting smart. Here, take it.'_

_'Dean, I can't.'_

_'Course you can. That's what money's for, right? There's about two, maybe three hundred there. It's not much, but, uh, it should help you get started.'_

_'But that's not fair, Dean, this is yours.'_

_'And now it's yours.'_

_'You're sure?'_

_'Positive. Now take it before I change my mind.'_

_'Thanks, Dean.'_

Dean remembers Sam climbing out of the car and hoisting the pathetically small bag that held everything he owned onto his back. Dean knew he should have followed him, walked him to the station and watched him get on the bus, but somehow he couldn't move. It was like something was holding him down; he had to watch Sam leave and not do a thing about it.

_'Sam, you should, uh, you should phone me as soon as you get there, ok? Just let me know you arrived safe.'_

_'Yeah, Dean.'_

That had been the moment, Dean remembers, that it seemed like Sam was about to say goodbye. For good.

_'I'll see you soon, dude, ok? I'll, uh, I'll see you soon.'_

_'Dean...I...'_

_'Sammy, please. I'll see you soon, ok?'_

If Dean remembers correctly, then he's sure that both of them were crying by this stage; both of them did a pretty good job of trying to hide it, of course, but Dean was familiar with the telltale signs. It was over too soon, and then Sam was walking away, his shoulders shaking with the effort of holding back tears and Dean was watching him go, tears stinging his own eyes for the first time in years, and knowing, with a horrible certainty, that he was probably never going to see his brother again.

Except, here Sam is, and here Dean is, and it's funny how things work out.

Dean wants nothing more than to go over to Sam. Honest to God, he wants it more than anything else in the world, but he knows he can't. As much as he wants to, he knows he can't just go over there and pull his his little brother into a hug, and give him a good smack upside the head for being so incommunicado as well of course, and then tell him how good it is to finally see him again.

He can only imagine Sam's reaction if he did.

Dean can't quite pinpoint the moment when Sam stopped looking up to him as the cool older brother he wanted all his friends to meet and started thinking of him as an embarrassment he had to disassociate himself from. Sam's friends probably don't even know that he has a brother at all, much less one you'd find at bar with a black eye and a leather jacket with faded bloodstains on the sleeve. Maybe as far as they're concerned, Sam doesn't have a brother, or a father or any sort of family at all. To them, maybe, Sam simply just popped into being the day his first semester of college started. Anyway, Dean can't exactly see himself fitting in with Sam's Stanford friends. Best to stay away then.

It occurs to Dean that he needs to get out of here, and he needs to get out of here now before he fucking loses it. Maybe it's because he's finally feeling a little drunk after all, or maybe it's because he's sober, but he knows that he can't sit ten feet away from Sam and pretend like he's not there anymore. He can't spend the night waiting for Sam to notice him, and then panicking about what his reaction will be. Dean thinks that he could cope with Sam being angry to see him or, God forbid, actually pleased but if Sam were to ignore him or act like they didn't know each other, well, Dean's pretty sure his damn heart would just snap in two.

He never actually ordered that drink, and the last of Caleb's money is still burning a hole in his wallet. He has a sudden idea, and he calls the bartender over, ordering a beer. When the guy returns with it, Dean stops him.

'It's not for me. Listen, could you send it to that table over there?'

'It's for the hot blonde chick, right?' the bartender smirks, but Dean's in no mood for jokes.

'Look, just give it to the kid with the floppy hair and the plaid shirt, ok?'

'You got your eye on him, sunshine?'

Dean can't help but roll his eyes. 'Yeah, that's it,' he says flatly. 'Just do it, would you?'

'You got it.'

Dean doesn't hang about to see what happens. As soon as the bartender leaves him alone, he is out of there, pulling his jacket round him and exiting the seedy little bar in five seconds flat. He doesn't stop to take a look back, even though it might just be the last look at his brother he ever gets, but he's scared that if he catches Sam's eye then he'll never be able to pull himself away. And that just wouldn't be good for anyone.

He fumbles his keys a little trying to unlock the door of the Impala and the thought hits him that maybe he shouldn't be driving, but he's also certain that he's not leaving his baby here at this dive overnight. And besides, he doesn't want Sam to see the car and think that Dean was spying on him or something. Heinous crime though it may be, the fact remains that there just aren't that many '67 Chevy Impalas on the roads these days so if Sam were to see one pulled up outside a bar, chances are he'll make the connection. The licence plates have been changed at least twice since Sam left, but that hardly matters.

Dean slides into the familiar leather seat of the Impala and starts her up, practically flooring it as he gets the hell out of there, and away from his little brother.

Dean is already on his way by the time the bartender shuffles over to Sam. Sam looks up in surprise as a bottle of beer is plonked down unceremoniously in front of him, the bubbly brown liquid slopping out and splashing on his shirt.

'I didn't order...' he begins but the bartender silences him with a wave of his hand.

'Dude in the leather jacket at the bar sent it over,' the bartender winks and he looks back round at the bar. 'Looks like he left already. Sorry, sunshine.'

Sam can see his own frown of confusion mirrored on Jessica's face and he ignores the laughter from the guys around the table. He's just about to write it off as one of those strange occurrences when he hears the loud and distinctive rumble of a familiar car starting up outside. He barely knows what he's doing, but Sam's on his feet before he can stop himself and he's running to the door, wrenching it open, completely deaf to the confused shouts and calls of his friends.

He stumbles out into the car park just in time to see a black Impala speeding off into the night. He stands there for a minute watching as the car rounds a corner and disappears from view until Jessica comes and takes his arm. She's worried about him, and he lets her pull him away and he knows he'll spend the rest of the night trying to convince himself that this is all just a coincidence. The fact that someone in a leather jacket driving his brother's car happened to buy him a beer doesn't mean anything at all.

And Dean drives away, knowing he'll spend the rest of the night trying to convince himself that his little brother didn't just come running out after him, and that isn't Sam standing at the door staring at the car. Even still, he can't shake the feeling that he's just driven away and left Sammy standing there, just like he left him at the bus station all those months back.

_Sam_, he corrects himself firmly, _it's Sam. And it doesn't matter anyway. _


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: This was only ever intended to be a one-shot but I had a few requests to publish more, so here we are, and I thought it was only fair to explore some of what Sam was feeling. Hope you enjoy, and thank you for the interest shown!**

'Here, Sam, drink up.'

Sam is unceremoniously jerked out of his thoughts as Jessica places a cup of coffee on the table in front of him. He accepts it with a mumbled thanks and wraps his fingers round the cup, allowing the warmth to spread through him. It almost feels like he's ill, feverish, but really he is just preoccupied, filled with an uncertainty that hasn't surfaced in a while.

He can tell that Jessica is worried about him, and she has good reason to be. They've been friends practically since the first week of the semester, and they're close, but he's always been careful around her, and his other friends too. As far as they're concerned, Sam is always smiley and cheerful and studious; the Sam they know doesn't suddenly bolt in a bar and go tearing off after some guy who supposedly bought him a drink. Until tonight, that is. Sam doesn't know what he was thinking, he _wasn't_ thinking, and he's pretty sure he's made a real idiot of himself in front of his friends, but he can't bring himself to care right now. He doesn't even really care that Jessica made excuses for them to leave early and practically had to escort him back to the motel. He doesn't even mind that he's supposed to be sharing a room with Brady and some of the other guys while Jessica shares with her girlfriends, and yet he's ended up in her room.

In his mind's eye, Sam is too busy replaying the night's events to care very much. He remembers walking into the bar with the others, and he remembers thinking that it was a real dive, exactly the sort of place that a hunter might hole up in between hunts.

Of course, he hadn't expected to see his brother there.

But had it really been Dean? That's the part Sam can't make up his mind on. Pretty much all the signs are pointing towards it. The bartender's description seemed to fit Dean, and wouldn't it be just like his big brother to buy him a beer? Then, of course, he heard, and saw the car. Sam practically lived in that friggin' thing when he was growing up, and he'd recognise the sound of it starting up anywhere. That was when he ran after it.

Sam could have been six years old again and Dad might just have dropped them off at another new school. How many times had he stood with Dean at the steps of new, nameless school in another nameless town, watching Dad drive away? He remembers once, when he was very young, trying to make a break for it after the car, while Dean held onto his backpack to keep him back.

_'I want to go back to our old school, Dean, let me go!'_

_'Sammy, stop it. This is our school now.'_

_'But I don't know anybody here!'_

_'Well, you will soon. Now, come on, I'll walk you to your classroom.'_

Looking back, Sam realises that Dean couldn't have been any older than ten when that happened, but he always seemed so much older and grown up to Sam. Then he remembers another time, many years later, standing watching the Impala driving away, only this time, he was standing by himself and it was Dean who was leaving him there. For the very first time in his life, Sam was completely by himself as he stood at the entrance to the bus station and watched Dean drive away.

He wanted Dean to say something on that car journey; he wanted Dean to show that he felt something that Sam was leaving, potentially forever, but his big brother had just stared straight ahead, clenching the steering wheel so tightly it looked like he could snap it in two. Sam knew he should say something, but nothing came to mind and all he could do was make sure that Dean didn't hate him, and accept the tight wad of money Dean had probably been building up for weeks. And then, all too soon, Sam was on an almost empty bus to California, sitting at the back and trying to cry discretely behind his book.

Sam didn't know what to feel, he still doesn't know and it felt like ten different emotions were battling for prominence inside him. On the one hand, he was distraught to be leaving his brother, who'd done nothing but look after him his entire life, and he was angry at his father for the horrible things he's said. And then, on the other hand, he was excited and he was pleased with himself because he finally got away and got what he wanted for years. And then he was guilty for being so selfish and thinking only of himself. This was all on top of the nervous excitement felt by any other kid leaving home to go to college.

'Sam?'

Sam looks up to see Jessica looking at him, her eyes full of concern. He has almost forgotten that she was there at all, much less sitting across the table from him.

'I'm fine,' he says quickly, hastily taking a sip of his now lukewarm coffee and resisting the urge to spit it out.

'What's up with you?'

'Nothing,' Sam aims for a jaunty, carefree tone but somehow, he doesn't think he quite pulls it off. Certainly Jessica doesn't look convinced.

'Sam, do you want to talk about what happened back there? I mean, you were fine one minute, and then you kind of...'

She trails off, like she's waiting for Sam to fill in the rest.

'I just thought I saw someone I knew, that's all. I just didn't expect to see him. Maybe it wasn't him. I don't know.' Sam's voice comes out in jerky little bursts but Jessica doesn't seem put off. If anything, she actually looks interested.

'Who?' she asks, and she isn't pressing or probing, and it occurs to Sam just how _nice_ Jessica is and how much he likes her.

'I thought it was my brother,' he says quietly after a moment or two of consideration.

It seems that is not the answer Jessica was expecting. 'Your brother?' she repeats, frowning slightly. 'Huh.'

'What?' Sam doesn't mean for that to sound quite as defensive as it does, but he's a little on edge tonight and he can't help it.

'Nothing. It's just, well, I didn't even know you had a brother, that's all. I mean, you never talk about your family. I probably wouldn't even know your last name if it wasn't on your records.'

Well, that much is true. Sam has been perfectly friendly to everyone he's met at college, but he's never once volunteered any personal information about himself if he could help it. He's acted engaged and interested when other people feel the need to tell him their life stories, but he's never had cause to reciprocate. Until now, apparently.

'It's complicated,' he says at last, deciding 'complicated' is the best adjective to describe his family, even if it is the understatement of the century.

'You guys don't get along?'

'No, we do, well we used to but we kind of, uh, we didn't really part on the best of terms, you know? It's not like we had a fight or anything, not really, but we were always really close. I mean, my brother practically raised me when we were kids.'

'But what about your mom and dad?' Jessica's frown becomes more pronounced and Sam can see that she, coming from her nice normal background, is struggling to grasp this concept of his childhood.

'My mom died,' he says flatly.

An embarrassed flush creeps into Jessica's cheeks, tingeing them pink, and she pats his hand in a gesture of awkward, but genuine, sympathy. 'Oh my God, I'm sorry, Sam, I didn't-'

'It's ok,' he forestalls her before she can get any further. 'Really. I mean, I never knew her but my Dad, he, uh, he took it hard and we moved around a lot when I was growing up. He had to work a lot.'

Sam was wrong earlier, _this_ is the understatement of the century, maybe even the millennium.

'What does he work as?'

Sam actually feels himself stiffening, his whole body tensing like he's preparing to fight. If ever there was a moment where he could open right up and spill all the secrets of his messed up family life to Jessica, then this would be it.

But he can't. And he knows he can't.

He can't look at Jessica's pretty, innocent face and watch it crumple as he tells her that every vile creature that stalked her childhood nightmares, plus a whole lot more, are actually real. Sam remembers precisely how that feels; he remembers being eight years old and crying himself to sleep on a hard motel bed after his big brother reluctantly told him the truth. He can't do that to Jessica; it just isn't fair. She doesn't need to know, and she never will.

'He works for a sales company,' he says flatly, and there is it. The old lie surfaces again.

'Oh.' Jessica is silent for a moment, tactfully leaving Sam alone with his thoughts before she speaks again. 'What's your brother's name?'

'Dean.' Sam hasn't spoken his big brother's name aloud in months; he hasn't even allowed himself to think about it too much for fear of what it might bring up. He hasn't even spoken to Dean since the day he arrived at Stanford, and even then it was only because Dean had told him to.

_'Dean?'_

_'Sam? Man, it's good to hear from you.'_

_'It's only been a couple of hours, Dean.'_

_'Whatever. You arrived ok?'_

_'Yeah.'_

_'Listen, man, you left some stuff here. If you want, I can bring them to you. I can be there tomorrow morning.'_

_'It doesn't matter.'_

_'But you left some jeans here, Sam, a few shirts as well and your good jacket.'_

_'It's fine, Dean, I can get new stuff.'_

_'Oh. Well. If you're sure.'_

_'Yeah, I'm sure. Listen, Dean, I have to go.'_

_'Yeah. Yeah, of course. I'm sure you're busy. It's just, Sammy, you know I'm here, right? You can call me whenever.'_

_'Yeah, I know. Bye, Dean.'_

_'Bye, Sammy.'_

But Sam hasn't called, not even once. Phone calls would lead to visits and eventually he would be dragged right back into the life he had worked so hard to get away from. It was better he completely cut himself off, right?'

'Sam and Dean,' Jessica says thoughtfully. 'Your names go nice together.'

'You think so?'

'Yeah.' Jessica smiles that little smile that Sam's been falling for since the day he met her, but this is hardly the moment for that. 'So you think that really was your brother back at the bar?'

'Maybe. I don't know,' Sam shrugs.

'Why wouldn't he come over and speak with you then?'

Sam shrugs again. 'Maybe he just didn't want to see me,' Sam mutters and to his absolute horror, he can feel the prick of tears stinging his eyes. He bits down hard on his lip, willing himself to hold it together and not completely lose it like a little kid just because his big brother didn't speak to him. After all, why the hell should Dean speak to him when Sam has ignored all his phone calls and hasn't bothered to pick up the phone himself?

'Sam?' Jessica is concerned again.

'I'm fine,' Sam says hastily, making an extreme effort to keep his voice calm and steady. 'Really, Jess, thanks.' That last part slips out almost without his volition, and he's not quite sure where the _Jess_ came from. He stiffens slightly, awaiting her reaction; he knows better than anyone what it's like to have someone pushing an unwanted nickname on you. For how many years has he been trying to shake the dreaded _Sammy?_ To his surprise, however, Jessica, _Jess,_ doesn't seem too perturbed.

'Nobody ever calls me Jess,' she comments lightly.

'I didn't mean...' he trails off awkwardly, suddenly finding that he can't quite look her in the eye.

'Maybe you should phone your brother?' Jess suggests sometime later when Sam has, mercifully, managed to discretely wipe his eyes and clear his throat. 'Just to see if it really was him, you know?'

'But what if it wasn't him?' Sam can't help but say, even though he knows, deep down, that it was Dean, really.

'Then it'll still give you two a chance to talk, right?'

She's right, and Sam knows she's right, but still, he just can't bring himself to make any sort of move.

'I'll just go and give you some privacy,' Jess says tactfully, but Sam is the one to stand up.

'No, I'll go, I need...some air...' he trails off lamely, grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair.

'It'll all be ok,' Jess promises but Sam knows this isn't true.

He makes it as far as the motel parking lot before he allows himself to stop, to think, to _breathe._ Sam sinks onto a hard wooden bench overlooking the sparsely filled lot and takes his cell phone out of his pocket, turning it over and over in his hands.

He tells himself to stop being such a wimp and to man up. He tells himself that he's perfectly capable of working a cell phone and that he should just get a grip and call his brother.

It's just a pity that Sam isn't listening to himself right now.

Sam tries to reason with himself. The very worst thing that could happen, he thinks, is that he could phone Dean and Dean, seeing Sam's name flash up would deliberately not answer. He immediately feels guilty with the realisation that this is exactly what he's been doing to Dean these past months. How many times has he heard his phone ring, usually in class or some equally embarrassing situation, seen Dean's name and ignored it? More times than he count. He used to listen to all the rambling messages Dean left on his voicemail, but the temptation to call back became too much, and now he just deletes them right away. Except Dean hasn't called in a while now, and Sam thought his big brother had just given up and moved on, until he turned up tonight. Maybe it's Sam who hasn't given up and moved on. And maybe it would be even worse if Dean were to actually pick up because what is Sam supposed to say to him?

_'Hey, Dean, sorry I've basically ignored you for months. Whoops, bro, my bad!'_

He's left it much too long. He didn't come home for Thanksgiving or Christmas, not that those two days mean anything in their family anymore, but he stayed at school while everyone else went home for the vacation. It was a depressing, but strangely fortifying thought, that however sad it was to stay at school over the holidays by himself, it was a million times better than going home to argue with his father.

But then he didn't come home, or even call, for Dean's birthday, which is probably about the very worst thing he could have done. Christmas kind of went downhill after that year when Dean stole some little girl's presents for Sam and Dad didn't bother his ass showing up, but birthdays were always good. It didn't even matter that Dad was there some years, and noticeably absent others, even when he missed Sam's sixteenth, or the day Dean turned twenty one because they always had each other to celebrate with. Sam's May birthday meant sunny afternoons spent in playgrounds when they were little, and Dean fixing up an old bike whose origins Sam didn't care to question because he was too busy racing his brother. It meant throwing an old baseball round or running around for fun, not for drills, or going to the movies because there was some film Sam just had to see. Dean's birthday meant snowball fights if it was cold enough that year, and lopsided snowmen that always fell apart and vicious battles in the snow that always ended with Dean kicking Sam's ass before ordering him inside to warm up with some hot chocolate and the best blanket.

Sam wonders if Dean even celebrated his birthday this year. He turned twenty three in January, not a particularly important birthday by all usual counts, but still a pretty major milestone with the hunter's lifestyle his brother leads. Dad probably didn't even acknowledge it, or even remember, and of course Dean wouldn't have mentioned it. Sam remembered it, the thought wouldn't leave him alone for the entire day, but he didn't acknowledge it.

Sam wonders if he'll celebrate his own birthday this year. He'll be nineteen soon, and he knows that if Jess and the others find out the date, then they'll insist on celebrating for him. If Dad acknowledges the date in any way, then it'll only be in recognition of the fact that it's exactly six months before Mom's anniversary, or exactly six months after, depending on how you look at it. Sam's pretty sure the fact of his youngest son's nineteenth birthday won't even cross John Winchester's mind. But Dean will remember. He'll remember, and what's more, he'll make the effort to acknowledge it. Sam can picture his big brother dropping whatever he's doing and making the drive to California, no matter how far away he is. Dean could be on the other side of the country and he'd still show up on the morning of Sam's birthday, probably with a present in tow too. This is because Dean is an infinitely better person than Sam, and Sam is very much aware of this fact.

Sam knows he should get over himself and just phone his brother. If Dean doesn't pick up, then this is the closure Sam needs to end that part of his life and concentrate fully on college, right? And if he does pick up, then Sam will talk to him. How hard can it be to talk to his big brother? After all, they used to spend practically all day everyday with each other and Dean knows Sam inside out. More than anything, Sam wants to feel able to call Dean whenever he likes. He wants to tell Dean about his classes, and how well he's doing with all his assignments. He wants Dean to know all about the friends he's made, and he sure as hell needs his big brother's advice on how to deal with girls because he's got a major crush on Jess and he's not quite sure how to proceed. And he needs Dean to tell him that he still doesn't hate him and that he hasn't got himself hurt on some stupid hunt and that Dad hasn't been too hard on him.

Sam isn't going to hear all that unless he calls his brother.

So he stops turning the phone over in his hands and he flips it open and he calls Dean.

And he waits.

One ring.

Two.

Three.

Sam's clutching the phone so tightly that it's in real danger of snapping clean in two.

Four rings.

Five.

Sam's got his cell phone pressed so tightly against the side of his face that he'll probably end up with a permanent imprint of it.

Six rings.

Sam is just about to give up, throw his phone as far away from himself as he possibly can when he hears his brother's voice. All of a sudden, the words are tumbling from Sam's mouth, and it's a struggle to even speak coherently because he's found the words now and Dean needs to hear them. He's waited long enough, after all.

Except Dean doesn't hear them. Because Sam is talking to Dean's recorded voicemail message.

_'Hey, this is Dean Winchester, but if you're lucky enough to have this number then you already knew that. Leave a message!'_

It's the same message Dean has had forever, and never has Sam been less pleased to hear it. This is possibly even worse than all those times, and there were many, when Dean got hurt or went missing on a hunt and Sam was in desperate pursuit of him.

Sam listens to Dean's voicemail and then comes the beep, inviting him to leave a message. For a second, he dithers, wondering if he can really convey everything he needs to say in one short message, before he makes the decision and snaps the phone shut with much more force than he intended.

He's crying now, properly crying with the streaming eyes and the heaving shoulders and the whole nine yards. Sam doesn't know why he's so upset that Dean didn't pick up; he had the suspicion that this would happen but it hurts a lot more than he expected. He's getting a taste of his own medicine now, and Sam doesn't like it one bit. Honestly, he can't blame Dean for not wanting to speak to him if this is how he's felt every time Sam ignored his calls.

Even still, Sam knows he won't call Dean again.

He can't put himself through this again, and Dean has made it quite clear that he can't either. Despite that maelstrom of words that came tumbling out just seconds before, it seems that neither brother has anything to say to each other.

That's just the way things are now. And this is the ways things are going to be.

Sam takes a deep, shuddering breath and forces himself to calm down. He drags his sleeve across his streaming eyes and just hopes he doesn't look too red and weepy. He switches off his phone and shoves it deep into his pocket because he doesn't want to be tempted and he honestly doesn't want to be reminded of what happened, and what might have been.

This is the closure he thought about earlier, the closure he thought he achieved all those months ago when Dean dropped him off at the bus station. It looks like he's finally achieved that independence and self sufficiency he's been craving since he was about thirteen years old.

Sam wonders why it doesn't feel better and why it feels like he's lost something rather than gained it.

He stands up and takes another deep breath, quickly rearranging his facial features into a smile because he's fine, really, he is. He's going to walk into that motel room and tell Jess that he's fine, because he is, and get on with the rest of his life. Maybe he'll stick around for the rest of Spring Break, even though it's not really his thing at all, or maybe he'll go back to school early and get on with his studying. Maybe Jess will come too. Sam really wants to spend more time more time with her and get to know her and see if, maybe, she would like to go out with him some time.

Sam has more than enough to be getting on with. He doesn't have the time to be dwelling on who and what he used to be when he has so much to do now.

So maybe that was Dean in the bar, and maybe it wasn't, because it doesn't matter either way since Dean didn't want to talk to Sam. He isn't 'always there' like he promised to be. And that's ok, because they've both moved on. Sam thinks he's made it more than clear that he doesn't need his big brother any more.

Sam takes another breath as he prepares to enter the motel, and the start of the rest of his life. He's about to start a new life, hopefully one in which Jessica is heavily present; a new life that is nice and normal and safe. And Sam's happy, he really is. Because this is the life he has always wanted to lead, right?

Sam is going to spend the rest of the night, possibly the rest of his life, trying not to think about Dean and all that he has left behind. Miles away, Dean is of a similar mindset, trying to rid himself of the image of Sam watching the Impala driving away, until he realises he left his phone behind at the bar. He sure as hell isn't going back to that dive anytime soon and he's never setting foot in this whole stupid town again, if he can help it. It was only a cheap old cell phone and it was about time he got a new one anyway. There wasn't anything important on it and he has all his contacts written down anyway so he can replace it easily enough. He calls Dad on a payphone and to his surprise, the old man actually wants his help sorting out a poltergeist in a town a couple of states over. Dean knows John isn't going to acknowledge their weeks apart and there's no way Dean's going to bring up the fact that he saw Sam. And that's fine.

He slides back into the front seat of the Impala, keen to start his journey right away, and he doesn't even look back at the town whose name he doesn't care to remember as he speeds away. He pushes his favourite cassette tape into the stereo and turns the volume up as high as he can stand it because he doesn't want to think, or dwell, or any of that crap.

Sam doesn't know that Dean left his phone behind, and Dean doesn't know that Sam actually tried to call him, but, all things considered, maybe that's for the best. Neither Winchester can see the future, at least not yet anyway, and they don't know that they won't call each other again. In fact, they won't even see each other for nearly four years when Sam's attempts at a nice, normal, safe life are disrupted by a big brother who needs him much more than he lets on. But that's a whole other story entirely.

Right now they're apart, headed down different roads, and living their own lives, which is best for everyone. And that's _fine_, that's _great_, really.


End file.
